


stupid fascist spiders

by beenomorph



Category: Battleborn (Video Game)
Genre: Flashbacks, Panic Attacks, Spiders
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-01
Updated: 2017-02-01
Packaged: 2018-09-21 07:56:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9538706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beenomorph/pseuds/beenomorph
Summary: Unconsciously, gloved hands reached up to check his helmet-it was fine, still whole, still intact.





	

**Author's Note:**

> im having a bad night, so oscar mike is too. its 1:40 am and i havent slept and this hasnt been proofread *thumns up

Oscar Mike didn’t dream that often. He slept in short increments, out like a light in an instant for a brief spells of sleep wherever he could get comfortable should the urge to snooze arrive.

Sometimes he thought that maybe, it should bother him-- that maybe it wasn’t  _ normal-  _ he used to make up the wildest dreams and stories on the spot when asked back in his UPR days, so afraid that even the slightest hint of abnormality would lead the others to the realization that he wasn’t one of them. He, of course, didn’t realize that they didn’t need  _ that  _ to peg him as a clone.

In the end, it didn’t bother him- dreams were stupid, he decided, no point in focusing that much energy on made up crap. Besides, if he didn’t have dreams, he didn’t have nightmares either, which was a win.

Only, you can’t win  _ every  _ time. And now wasn’t one of the times he was winning.

Memories flashed behind his eyelids like lighting- like the flare from the barrel of a gun as it fires in a dark cave, illuminating the course walls and sticky floors with each bullet.

Oscar Mike hadn’t been afraid of spiders beforehand- in all honesty, he hadn’t been afraid of much at all- but Orban VII changed that really quick. 

His gun was heavy in his hands, empty on ammo, useless-- panic settling in his chest as he realized help wasn’t coming. The damn things had split up his whole unit, getting the jump on them when they’d wandered too far into their nesting caverns. They were everywhere-- on the walls, coming up from the floors, far larger than any spider ever had a right to be, and the sounds of his squadmates screaming was the unpleasant backdrop to the scene.

The rocky wall was uneven and rough on his back, a cold and constant reminder of how he had nowhere left to run, of how royally screwed he was at the moment, looking into the shit ton of eyes looking back at him.

Three of them. Advancing, slowly-- in a moment of distance, of clarity, he remembers them advancing much faster, too fast for him to wait out the cooldown on his cloak and maybe try to worm his way out of it,-- but in the dream, he’s locked rigid, unable to move as they approach, unable to hear anything except the screams of his friends and the clicking of fangs, the quiet noise all of their freaky legs made as they rubbed against each other.

The last thing his left eye ever sees is the one in the middle pouncing on him. He hears a crack, a terrible crack, the tear of metal and splintering plastic as his helmet breaks, he hears the scream tearing its way from his chest.

In the real world, Oscar Mike knows how this story ends-- he kicks the spider off and blindly throws his frag grenade, the loud explosion in the small space makes his ears ring just thinking about it-- he can still feel the heat, still can feel the reverberations through the stone and the settling rock afterwards. He laughs, quiet and shaky at first, amazed that it had actually worked, amazed to still be alive, amazed by how much blood was leaking down his mask, soon hysterical and loud. He knows he threw a bunch more grenades before he finally passed out, knew he killed a bunch more of those stupid fascist spiders, knew he didn’t even have to think about it.

His subconscious mind has other plans, and he’s trapped once more, watching that damn thing tear him apart, helpless and alone. 

When he woke up, he’s shaking. He was in the cargo hold, leaning against one of the boxes out of view of whoever might be wandering in and out. He was… What was he supposed to be doing? Inventory? He couldn't really focus-- his armor felt too heavy, his skin felt sweaty and uncomfortable, his heart was beating a mile a minute. Unconsciously, gloved hands reached up to check his helmet-it was fine, still whole, still intact. His body was somewhere on the spectrum of being absolutely ready to fight and being absolutely ready to throw up, which is why the sight of a tiny spider crawling its way towards him sent him off.

He screamed-- later, of course, he’d never admit to it, but then he was tripping over himself, limbs wobbly as he scrambles away.

Montana was on the scene with a speed that surprised even Oscar Mike, kneeling beside where the little clone was hyperventilating on the ground, shoes scrabbling against the smooth floor as he continued pushing himself away.

“You OK, buddy? I was-- I heard-” he gestured vaguely to the door before resting one of his enormous hands on Oscar Mike’s comparatively small back, “C’mon, Mikey, breathe with me,” he said, voice gentle, and Oscar Mike took a deep breath.

“Spider,” he exhaled, and his voice cracked around the word which made him feel like a total dumbass, “There was- by the crates- I was asleep-” he explains, helplessly, scrubbing his hands over his mask. 

Montana stays quiet while the other rambles, knowing that there’s more to this than Oscar Mike is letting on-- he’s been a soldier a long time, he knows trauma when he sees it.

Oscar Mike takes a few deep breaths. He closes his two good eyes, he holds on to Montana’s arm like a lifeline, but he stops shaking.

“Can we, like,” he says, after a few minutes pass, “Pretend like this never happened?”

“Sure thing, buddy!” Montana says with a lazy smile, pretending not to notice when he lifts the faceplate of his helmet to scrub away the tears on his face as he gives the clone an affectionate nudge on the shoulder that sends him stumbling. “I just came down here to tell you they’ve got tater tots in the mess again, and-”

That gets Oscar’s attention, and he stands up in an instant, grabbing Montana’s gargantuan arm and hollering something about how he hasn’t eaten all day, and about the sweet idea he just got for the poetry slam coming up.

 


End file.
